We Gather Together
by Hans the bold
Summary: The story begun in “Walking Away”, “And The Band Played On”, and “I Have Loved You Dearly” continues here. Still rated PG-13 for its attempt at a realistic portrayal of a disintegrating family.
1. Part 1

This story continues the tale I began in "Walking Away". As always, the characters herein are not my own, but belong to the producers of 7th Heaven, or the WB, but not to me. The encouragement and demands to write more have been most appreciated, both here and on the 7th Heaven boards at Mighty Big TV (http://www.mightybigtv.com). I have always been a big fan of good family drama; I suppose I am writing this critique of 7th Heaven as much because I am saddened at the fact it could be so much better than it is and because I am troubled by the show's message that obvious abusive behavior and mental illness in a spouse and parent is somehow funny or not to be taken seriously.  
  
* * *  
  
PART 1  
  
You could pass by the house and never know it. A big house, yes, in a comfortable neighborhood, with a lawn and a wide front porch and a garage and even a room over the garage. Almost a cliché, really, this house. Middle class Americana.  
  
A home?  
  
Perhaps.  
  
Look inside.  
  
Some time had passed. It grew colder; not truly cold, for this was southern California, but colder than it had been.  
  
Inside the house, inside the cliché of middle class America, things were quiet.  
  
They knew why this was, those that lived there did. Even as the routine settled over them like a shroud, even as they learned to watch their words carefully in a way they had never had to before, even as they spoke in quite whispers lest they be heard, they knew.  
  
For the pictures were gone and the name was not to be spoken.  
  
#  
  
Quiet, perhaps late at night. Forbidden words, spoken in a hush.  
  
"I miss her."  
  
"Yeah. Me too."  
  
"You think she'll ever come home?"  
  
"I don't know. I just wish ...."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I wish we knew. I wish I could tell her I'm sorry."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
#  
  
And there was peace, of a sort, in the house. You learned never to stand out, never to attract your mother's attention. Because there was always an edge now, to her, to Dad. You saw him concede to her, give in again and again. You saw your siblings backpedal for her, saw how you yourself were always neat, always careful, always polite, how you always chose your words carefully.  
  
And you saw in most of them what you felt yourself.  
  
I am afraid.  
  
* * *  
  
It was hard to come home from work. His nose was healing and the children no longer stared, but that wasn't it. It wasn't anything, he had told them; just an accident. I ran into something; clumsy me. This lie ate at him, though, because he knew that they knew it was a lie, but it had only happened once and now the house was calm again.  
  
Calm. What is the price of calm?  
  
He was leading a double life. At home there were one set of rules, rules he knew were wrong but that he followed because the alternative was simply too terrifying to contemplate; if he acted against her, against his wife, it would affect not only her but their children as well. Matt and Mary were adults, Simon nearly so. They would be able to cope. But Ruthie and Sam and David were too young; whatever action he took against Annie would shatter their lives. And it was hard, too, to contemplate leaving Annie. He knew that he wanted to love her, that he wanted her to be better. He remembered loving her and wanted to believe that he still could. So Eric Camden followed the set of rules at home, never saying the name of his second daughter except when he was certain that his wife was not home.  
  
From his office at the church, however, Eric Camden did his best to find his daughter, managing the search as best he could. The last check from her account had been cashed in New Mexico; surreptitiously he had paid for and sent a personal ad to the Albuquerque Journal, asking her to call him at the church, praying that she would see it. He had told no one about this.  
  
That had been weeks ago.  
  
Nothing.  
  
He kept her pictures in his desk drawer, out of sight in case Annie came by, and from time to time he would take one out and look down at it sadly, wondering how he could have let things get this bad. Because he was afraid, too, that Lucy might come back. He was afraid that she would show up at home, tired and battered and hurt, and that her own mother would turn her away.  
  
Or worse.  
  
He had only been hit once, but it had been a hard blow and it was impossible to forget.  
  
Annie needs help. How do I make her go?  
  
She had gone to the counselor, once, refused to go again. He had asked her why.  
  
"I don't like her. I don't know where you found her, Eric, but if she's the best you can do, then this whole idea was obviously a bad one."  
  
What had happened then? He had tried to talk to her, but she had stormed off.  
  
What am I going to do?  
  
I swear to God I can't take this anymore.  
  
But he did.  
  
* * *  
  
It was she, Annie, who held the house together. It was her will, her energy, that made things work and kept the dangerous chaos of the outside world at bay. She knew this; it was a fact and there was no questioning it. Without her the outside world would flood in and they would all be overwhelmed.  
  
But things should have been better by now.  
  
This wasn't right. The kids should have been happy, should have seen that she had done what she had done to protect them. They should be back into their projects and their schoolwork, coming home smiling and interested in telling her about their day. Yet they didn't, save for Ruthie.  
  
Ruthie hadn't changed at all.  
  
But the others, Matt and Mary and Simon, had grown silent. Matt was always away, always out studying. This was good, wasn't it? He was going to be a doctor, like Hank was, and that meant a lot of work. But he should talk to her about it sometimes, not say only a few words about needing to study now and then disappearing out the door.  
  
Mary seldom spoke at all. It was good to have her home and she had moved her things into the attic and was all settled in there. She stayed at home most of the time, her gaze always down, taking care of the twins without protest while Annie was at school. Quiet and demure, doing what she was told.  
  
Perhaps this was because she, of them all, had been the closest to the one who was gone. They had shared a room all those years, had shared secrets and clothes and experiences. And Mary had been the one with the troubles, the one they had mistakenly sent away to Buffalo. It must be hard for Mary, to now have to recover from all that, and maybe Mary saw the wisdom in obedience.  
  
But she still seemed sad all the time.  
  
Simon carried his anger and his hostility with him everywhere. Though he never spoke against her, Annie could feel it in him. And that wasn't right. He was her son, her boy. It was he who had always been so responsible, who had saved his money and started them all on the quip "Bank of Simon." But now that he was a teenager it was like he had become a different person, someone she couldn't talk to.  
  
It wasn't right with them. But it should be. I did what I had to do. Don't any of you realize the pain I went through to save you? I was the one who put my foot down; you saw that I was right and you apologized to me. And I was the one who saw the danger to the family and who didn't yield. Eric wanted to yield, but I wouldn't let him, and I saved him too.  
  
Why can't you thank me?  
  
Why is everything happening like this?  
  
She didn't know. She wanted to scream because the pain in her was so great it seemed to be tearing her into shreds. At night she would lie silently in bed, Eric beside her, and try to close her eyes against the terror and the rage.  
  
Make it stop. Make it all stop. 


	2. Part 2

PART 2  
  
"We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing;  
  
"He chastens and hastens his will to make known;  
  
"The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing,  
  
"Sing praises to his name: He forgets not his own."  
  
#  
  
They sang. He sang. And as they did he closed his eyes and let the words of the hymn wash over him. There was something about a hymn, something about the voices of the congregation singing, clumsy and off key sometimes, with singing with meaning, that always brought him calm.  
  
He preached then, and they listened.  
  
On Thursday it will be Thanksgiving. It is a recent holiday but not a recent idea. As we gather we must remember this idea foremost. We must take stock and give thanks for what we have, for who we have. Because who we have is more important, really, than what. Things, you know, may pass. But people are sacred and they are eternal, because they are a part of each of us. We are blessed by God with loved ones and we must all be willing to love them and accept them, without reservation. And we must give thanks, also, for their love, for their unconditional love of us.  
  
This I command you, Christ said before the crucifixion: Love each other as I have loved you.  
  
Annie, in the front row, watching him. He tried to read her face, her gaze. Was she hearing him? Don't you see, my dear wife, that we above all others need to show unconditional love? Don't you see that we have to find Lucy and love her, that we need to love all our children despite their flaws? You said this once, to me. Remember? Remember the girl whose parents had rejected her because she was pregnant? Remember what we told them? When did we become so judgmental that we stopped believing that?  
  
#  
  
He stood outside the church. One by one the parishioners passed him, spoke their platitudes. He wondered how many of them were lying.  
  
Because they were not blind, and they had noticed that Lucy was gone. They were not deaf, and they knew that the explanations they had been given were at best incomplete and at worst were lies.  
  
Matt, Mary, Simon. Not a word. Ruthie and a smile.  
  
And Annie. Her face was hard, rigid. Eric felt himself tense.  
  
Nothing.  
  
That night his father came.  
  
* * *  
  
Eric was sitting, alone in his office, when the doorbell rang. He sat alone in his office in the house a lot these days; it was easier to escape there and pretend to be working than to go out and be with any of them. From time to time he thought about taking one of the kids, just one of them, out to a movie or something, and then talking to them. He should be able to talk to them, shouldn't he? He was good at talking, at listening. It was his job.  
  
But here it was different.  
  
Why? Why can't you talk to your own kids anymore?  
  
What would I say to them? Your mother hit me and I am afraid of her?  
  
The doorbell.  
  
He rose to answer it.  
  
Dad. The Colonel.  
  
The same face, the same half smile, the knowing expression.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"Hello, son."  
  
"I thought you were spending Thanksgiving in --"  
  
His father shook his head. "No. Your mother is visiting her sister. I'm here to help."  
  
"Help?"  
  
"Seems like you need it, so I'm here. Are you going to invite me in?"  
  
This had happened before, a few years ago. Things had been crazy and somehow the Colonel had known, had appeared unannounced and had helped to get things under control. He knew about Lucy, of course; Michaels had suggested they contact all the relatives right after Lucy had left, in case she went to them.  
  
Eric stepped back. "Of course."  
  
The Colonel stepped inside. They watched each other for a moment.  
  
"So then," the older man said, "what's the latest news on Lucy?"  
  
Eric almost mentioned New Mexico, didn't. Sound traveled in this house.  
  
"Nothing," he said.  
  
The Colonel nodded. "I see."  
  
#  
  
It began then, one by one. His father going to each of the kids, to Simon first, then to Mary, then to Ruthie. Matt was out, at the library, so he would come later. And as the Colonel went to them, Annie came to him.  
  
"Eric? What's he doing here?"  
  
"He said he had come to help."  
  
"Help with what?"  
  
Eric paused, spoke then.  
  
"Lucy."  
  
Annie drew in a sharp breath, her face hardening. After a moment she spoke again.  
  
"You get him out."  
  
"Annie --"  
  
"You get him out, Eric! Do you hear me?"  
  
Eric saw her fists clench. He fought down the urge to back away.  
  
Then Annie turned, walked out without a word. He collapsed into his seat.  
  
"Oh, God," he moaned softly.  
  
He had never been able to say no to his father. Never. Julie had, once in a while, but she had been the girl and different rules applied to her than to him, and even then Julie had faced his stern discipline when she had said no. This had been unspoken in his boyhood, but real. A son obeys his father, because his father knows best.  
  
And the Colonel knew best. Always. Eric remembered all the talk about having a level head, about keeping your cool even under fire. That's how you became a man.  
  
I've tried, God. I've tried. I've tried with Annie. I've tried to be the reasonable one, the one who keeps things calm. But I just don't know if I can do it anymore.  
  
I just don't know.  
  
* * *  
  
Annie tried to stop from shaking with rage and fear.  
  
It was the balance. Keeping things just right, just the way she should be. Keeping her household, her family. Because that was all of it.  
  
But it was all falling apart now. That man was here. He was Eric's father, but he didn't respect Eric. He never had. And he had never respected her either; she had had to snap at him before, when he had told her how to be a mother.  
  
And now he was here. He was talking to her children. What was he saying?  
  
No, it was wrong. He was wrong.  
  
And Eric wouldn't do anything. The words came quickly, suddenly.  
  
I have to do something I have to do something but what can I do?  
  
Keep control. You have to keep control.  
  
I can't. Everything is wrong.  
  
The day ended and another began. 


	3. Part 3

PART 3  
  
He was the Colonel. They had once joked about it, about his demeanor, the way he talked like he knew the right answer to everything, the way he didn't like being called "grandpa". And they had all laughed at his exploits, at the way he would intimidate Lucy's date or just show up all of a sudden and start telling everyone what to do.  
  
It was easy to do, when he wasn't there.  
  
But now he was here, and one by one they all began to realize that they were going to be questioned.  
  
Simon sat now, in his room, facing him, feeling the man's gaze bore into him.  
  
"How are things, son?"  
  
"They're all right."  
  
"What happened with Lucy?"  
  
Simon shrugged. Maybe if he just pretended not to know anything then the Colonel would leave.  
  
"What was that, son?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You must know something. You live here."  
  
"I don't get told much. I wasn't here when she left. Talk to Mary."  
  
"Right now I'm talking to you. What did you see? This is important, son."  
  
Slowly, it all came out. This was the Colonel and you couldn't lie to him. The garage apartment, the stupid "Survivor" game, the night Lucy had spent alone in the back yard because Mom had told them all not to talk to her. And there was his guilt, too. He had gone along with throwing her out of the garage apartment. He had gone along with a lot of things. And as Simon found himself answering the Colonel's questions, he remembered that his father had told him to act like a man. Was he?  
  
He asked a single question when the interrogation was over.  
  
"When Grandma Ruth went through menopause, was she like Mom?"  
  
* * *  
  
She knew him, she supposed, better than any of the rest of them. She had lived with him and Ruth and George, had seen how George watched him and how George liked to act like he really knew what was going on. And she had gotten used to the Colonel, had gotten used to having a man tell her what to do, had gotten used to the direction he gave her.  
  
Then he had told her to leave, had told her that it was time to get her own life in order. She knew he wanted her to marry Wilson, knew that he had liked Wilson, and she wondered what he thought of her now. A grown woman, living at home with her parents, unable to hold a job or even find a husband.  
  
I can't do anything right.  
  
And now the Colonel was here. Mary knew better than to try and stop him from interrogating her. It had been inevitable; she was the one who had let Lucy go.  
  
"What did she tell you?" the Colonel asked now.  
  
"She said the family was dying."  
  
"Dying? Isn't that just a bit melodramatic?"  
  
"It's what she said."  
  
"And you didn't stop her?"  
  
Mary shook her head. The Colonel watched her closely for a few minutes.  
  
"And she didn't tell you where she was going?"  
  
"No."  
  
It went on then, detail after detail. And he watched her as she spoke, like he was a man trying to solve a puzzle, like she was a clue. There were no secrets from the Colonel, not for her. She had learned that right away in Buffalo; privacy was a privilege, earned through good behavior. He gave orders, and you obeyed.  
  
Just like Grandma Ruth did.  
  
* * *  
  
The Colonel came to her last. Ruthie knew he would, since she was the youngest, but she found herself looking forward to his knock on her door. Her door! Didn't that sound wonderful?  
  
When at last it came she admitted him with a smile. She liked her grandfather; this one at least. The other was strange and it could be hard to tell what he was going to do But the Colonel was good to her.  
  
And Ruthie knew, too, that there was a lot of potential with the Colonel. She had always noticed the way her father acted when he came to visit, how Dad would be just a bit more tense, a bit uncertain, when the Colonel was here. And Mom too would be different, deferring to the older man even though you could tell she didn't want to. And now, with Lucy gone and Mom making it clear that no one was to discuss her, there was a lot more that a carefully placed word or idea could do.  
  
He sat, smiled back at her.  
  
"How are you doing, Ruthie?"  
  
"I'm all right."  
  
"Do you miss your sister?"  
  
She lied. "Yeah, sometimes."  
  
"Was there anything she told you, anything she said, that might give us an idea where she went?"  
  
Ruthie shook her head. "We were having some fun in the garage apartment. It was a game. I told the others that Mom was going to be mad, but they didn't listen. Matt and Simon and I apologized, but I guess Lucy didn't want to."  
  
He nodded. "She should have."  
  
The words came easily to Ruthie now.  
  
"Are you going to find her?"  
  
"I'm going to try."  
  
"Mom and Dad called the police, but they haven't found anything yet. Now we never talk about her anymore. I wonder if they don't care about her now."  
  
The Colonel nodded again.  
  
"We're going to find her," he said then. "I'm glad you called me, Ruthie. It was the right thing to do. I'll talk to your father and we'll find her."  
  
Ruthie smiled. This was all going so wonderfully. Mary was already the bad daughter, and when they brought Lucy home she would be a bad one too. The fun from watching their pain would last for years.  
  
The Colonel smiled back at her. 


	4. Part 4

PART 4  
  
Eric rose early after little sleep. There seemed no point to it, to anything, anymore. Things were all wrong and they kept playing over and over in his head.  
  
Your daughter left.  
  
Your wife hit you.  
  
Your father is here.  
  
He didn't know why this last bothered him. Eric loved his father; he knew it and they all knew it. But there was something now that was unsettling about the man, here, now.  
  
Why?  
  
Why come now? He already knew about Lucy, knew about Mary.  
  
I've come to help, he had said.  
  
No. This isn't right. He didn't ask to come; he just came.  
  
And I let him in. I know he talked to most of the kids.  
  
Is Annie right about him, about this?  
  
Annie.  
  
Where are you, Annie?  
  
#  
  
Eric rose, showered, dressed. As he ate a quick breakfast his father came into the kitchen.  
  
"How are you, son?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
The usual answer. The Colonel watched him closely.  
  
He could always tell when I lied. He always could.  
  
"You're up early, son."  
  
Eric nodded.  
  
"Work."  
  
"I see."  
  
The eyes were on him, looking at him and into him. He couldn't match them. He could never match them.  
  
Eric left. He didn't know why, but he had to. It was like it wasn't his home anymore.  
  
#  
  
There was, of course, not really anything to do at the church. The budget was done, and he had been spending so much time in the office lately that he had sermons written for the next two weeks. He reviewed those, wondered if they sounded as empty as he thought they did.  
  
It's all empty now. None of it means anything. Everything you always thought was permanent, that you thought would last, is transient, like vapor.  
  
Ecclesiastes had said that, hadn't he?  
  
There is a time for all things.  
  
Later, the phone rang. He had been dozing, half hoping that someone would come in with something, anything, to take his mind off his own life. He sat up as it rang again, picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
A pause.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
He knew the voice.  
  
"Lucy?"  
  
"It's me, Dad."  
  
He sat up suddenly. For weeks he had obsessed over the right words, the words he would say to her, but now he found that he couldn't speak.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
He drew breath and a few words came.  
  
"Oh, my God, Lucy. Are you all right?"  
  
There was tension in her voice; he could sense it.  
  
"I'm fine, Dad."  
  
"Where --?"  
  
Hesitation. Then, "I saw the ad you placed. I'm all right. I wanted you to know that I'm all right."  
  
It was her, his daughter. Even now he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it. But he knew her voice, her tone. He could sense the emotion there and knew it was authentic.  
  
"Oh, God, honey. Do you need anything?"  
  
"No."  
  
No. Just no. She was his little girl; somewhere still, she was his little girl. And she was here, now, on the phone with him. What could he say to bring her home?  
  
She had noticed the silence.  
  
"Is everything all right, Dad?"  
  
And then it hit him. Ashes, in his hands. The look on Annie's face, her words. That girl. I've burned her up. A fist and a broken nose.  
  
Did he dare to bring her home?  
  
"Fine," he managed, hoping she wouldn't sense the lie. "We've just been worried."  
  
He could almost sense her nodding.  
  
"I'm sorry about that, Dad. But I had to go."  
  
"I understand," he said.  
  
"I don't want to hurt anyone," she said.  
  
"I know. It's all right, Lucy. It's all right."  
  
This lie bit him deeply. Her pictures at home, all of them, were gone. Her name was spoken in hushed, fearful whispers, if at all. She had become a nonbeing in the Camden household in only a little more than a month. And her mother, her own mother, had made this happen.  
  
And he didn't know why.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"I'm here."  
  
"I can't talk long. I'm on a pay phone. Are you all right? Is Mom all right?"  
  
The thought came then that she would call home and Annie would answer.  
  
Oh, God, not that. What would Annie say to her?  
  
He lied again. "We're all fine, Lucy. We miss you. But don't call home; no one's there right now. Do you have enough money? I put some more in your account."  
  
"I'm fine. I have a job."  
  
The questions came then: Where? Doing what? But somehow he sensed that she wouldn't answer these.  
  
"How can I reach you, Lucy?" he asked finally. "I won't call or anything if you don't want. But please; how do I reach you?"  
  
A pause. Hesitation.  
  
"I don't have a phone. I can call you."  
  
It was getting hard to hold the receiver. He braced one trembling hand with another.  
  
"Here. Call here. The church. Don't call home."  
  
Another pause. He knew what she was thinking.  
  
"All right. I have to go, Dad. Someone else needs the phone."  
  
"I love you, Lucy," he said.  
  
"I love you too."  
  
And then there was silence on the line. 


End file.
